The Lady of Whitecourt
by CoutureWriting
Summary: The Lannisters hide in Casterly Rock and Renly sits on the Iron Throne, while there is a King in the North like times of old. Robb Stark celebrates his anniversary of his ascension to the Northern crown by attending festivities in Whitecourt, where he meets a childhood friend who has grown up as he has over the years. But he is promised to another, and promises must be kept. RS/OC


**Just an attempt at pairing Robb Stark with an OC Character. Totally AU obviously (as Renly is still alive etc.) Let me know if you like it and want more.**

* * *

Nolana Whitemere let out a peal of laughter as she circled her partner and raised her hands above her head. The resounding clap engulfed the room as the rest of the dancers on the floor did the same. She was dancing with Erik Ileyn, a handsome, highborn boy she'd grown up with at court. He grinned widely at her as they danced.

It was a great occasion. The entire North was celebrating the first anniversary of Robb Stark, the King in the North, securing his title by fending off the Lannisters and avenging the death of his father by slaying King Joffrey. Stannis Baratheon had retreated to Dragonstone and Jaime Lannister was head of his House in Casterly Rock. Renly Baratheon sat on the Iron Throne alongside his wife, Margaery Tyrell.

The day had been spent mourning the lives lost in the war, by opening up Whitecourt Castle's Godswood to common folk and hosting a great feast at court in their memory. King Robb had been expected to make an appearance, but was as of yet to join them.

As the song finished, with a laugh, Nolana and Erik turned to give their applause to the band that had serenaded them. Nolana was breathless, and gave leave to Erik to find another partner as she returned to the raised dais where the rest of House Whitemere sat.

Her father, Lord Arien, sat in the throne, carved from an ancient wood that had whitened with age – it was a beautiful thing, the Whitecourt throne, carved to look exactly like the House sigil, a great white eagle, the arms of the piece whittled into great birds' wings to encompass the head of House.

Beside him stood her brothers, the eldest, Aruel, the spitting image of their father in face and in temperament, albeit more youthful and handsome. He shared the same heavy brow and wide forehead and dark eyes. His build was stocky and muscular. Across his cheek he carried a scar from an encounter with Jaime Lannister.

Haldamor and Fergale, so similar they could have been twins albeit a year's difference in age, stood together. They had both taken after their mother in face, with dark blonde heads and finer faces. Yet Haldamor was even mannered and just while Fergale was short-tempered and often acted without thinking.

And then there was Nolana herself, who was two years younger than Fergale, at seventeen. She herself was strikingly pretty, taking after her mother in face but her father in colouring. Her skin was ivory, with a head of long, charcoal-black hair (during a portrait sitting, their artist had joked that he could not find a black dark enough for it) and bright blue eyes. She was easily the favourite of her father, and despite countless marriage offers since her thirteenth nameday; he had never chosen a suitor for her. Her brothers had told her it was because he would never recover if she were to leave, but Nolana knew it was because of her father's strong belief that a Whitemere's place was at Whitecourt, even if she was a woman.

Her father laughed and applauded her as she approached and descended to press her lips to his cheek in a kiss. She was breathless but he hadn't seen her look so happy since before the war.

"I very much enjoyed your dancing, my love," he told her.

"I can assure you it was all Bel's work, not mine," she laughed, referring to her bright-eyed and enthusiastic handmaiden, "and Issie's insistence that I _practice_," she added, referring to her other, calmer, more gentle one.

Her father chuckled. "I should congratulate her then," he boomed. "Where is she?"

Nolana pointed to where she was now dancing with Erik, while Issie watched on, shaking her head with a disapproving smile.

Suddenly, the band fell silent as one of Lord Arien's guards came into the hall. "I present His Grace Robb Stark, King in the North, his mother Catelyn Stark, Lady of Winterfell, his brothers, the Princes Bran and Rickon and his sisters, the Princesses Sansa and Arya."

As the King swept into the room, everybody knelt to him. Even her father stood from his throne, descended from the dais and knelt. Nolana and her brothers followed suit, assembling beside him to do the same.

"My Lord Arien, there is no need," Robb called, motioning for her father to get up. "You owe me nothing, as it is. You have saved my life more than once."

"My King," he father acknowledged him as he rose. "How do we find you? In excellent health I hope?"

"The very best," Robb promised with a laugh. "Although I am very sorry to see the dancing stop!"

At his words, the band struck up again and those who had been dancing took back to the floor.

"Aruel, how are you?" Robb embraced her brother like an old friend.

"I am well, your Grace."

"Haldamor, Fergale," he greeted them with a firm handshake.

And finally it was her turn. Nolana had not seen him for years. The last time they had met she was eight and visiting Winterfell with her mother and father. She bobbed into a curtsy.

"My King," she said.

When their eyes met, she saw that Robb looked surprised. The years had done him well. He was incredibly handsome – dark-haired, grey-eyed with a fine face. There was light stubble dusting his chin. He gazed at her for what seemed like an age, and she was unable to gauge his reaction. Finally he bowed his head.

"My Lady," he said, taking her offered hand and pressing his lips to it gently.

* * *

How was it possible for one person to change so completely over the years? Robb saw no trace of the girl she had been in the woman's face before him. Instead she was poised and remarkably exquisite. It was no wonder her father had never wanted to let her marry into another House. And yet she was watching him curiously, as if unsure of his reaction. But how could his reaction be anything other than pure surprise and reverence?

"And are you staying on in Whitecourt long, your Grace?" she was asking, but Robb couldn't breathe, couldn't see. He blinked.

"I… Yes, I do believe we'll stay on a few weeks perhaps. It depends on how long your father wishes to welcome us," he managed to say.

She bowed that lovely black head of hers and smiled. "Our home is your home, my King," she told him serenely.

_Call me your king again_, he thought. Bitterly he remembered his promise to Walder Frey and his vain efforts to evade the inevitable. His mother had seen to that.

"Too kind," he told her. "The Whitemere hospitality is famed in the North. Your father is a gracious host."

He was embarrassed at the tedium of their small talk, but he did not know what to talk to her about.

She smiled. "You should see the rest of Whitecourt while you are staying on," she told him. "The coast especially. Perhaps we could take a boat out one day, if you like. My brothers and I are all adept sailors."

Robb raised his eyebrows but nodded nonetheless. "Tomorrow? I'm sure Arya would find that prospect exciting."

Nolana smiled uncomfortably. "Tomorrow is as good a day as any. There are some beautiful islands along the coast. There's one that my brothers and I frequently take to. It has the sweetest fruits and the finest fishing."

"Then it sounds perfect," said Robb brightly.

Nolana smiled widely at him and then moved to greet his mother with a soft kiss on her cheek.

"My Lady Stark," she said. "It has been much too long. Nine years, I believe."

"Too long," his mother agreed with a doting smile. "If your father had not refused our offer to foster you at Winterfell… though I would not envy you having to leave Whitecourt."

Nolana grinned.

"I would have enjoyed being fostered at Winterfell, but you know the Whitemere words," Nolana joked.

Robb's face soured. His mother talked so easily with this creature, while he could do nothing but murmur idly to her.

"Always our kin," agreed Lady Stark. "Or are you referring to the just as common 'A Whitemere's place is at Whitecourt'?"

"And there you have the end of it, Lady Stark."

And then his mother was embracing the Whitemere girl as if she was her own. "We have missed you in Winterfell. You shall have to visit when Robb marries."

Nolana stole a quick glance at Robb, whose face had embittered considerably.

"Console yourself, Your Grace," she laughed. "A wife is hardly as frightening as the Kingslayer or his father on the battlefield. And Walder Frey has so many daughters, he's bound to have one that is at least as lovely as she is amiable."

_Is she mocking me? _Robb couldn't tell. _Either way, Walder Frey's daughters each look like him in a wig and are far too bad mannered and meek to ever be called amiable._

"Lady Sansa!" cried Nolana in delight as the fifteen-year-old Princess leant up to bestow a delicate kiss upon the older girl's cheek.

Sansa had been acting peculiar ever since they had brought her back from King's Landing. If Robb hadn't known better, he would have thought she was mooning after some Knight or other, but she had shared no confidences with any of the women in Winterfell. The Hound, who had committed himself as her sworn shield, followed her wherever she led him, having taken vows to protect her life as if it were as precious as his own.

Not that Robb liked any of this, of course, but the man had laid down everything to keep her from harm while she was in the clutches of Joffrey, and had concealed her past the gates when the fighting had erupted, killing any man who had stood in his way to return her to the Stark camp.

Robb thought it was a sad reward, to allow him only to protect his young sister, but the man had refused all gold and titles, wanting only another master to serve dutifully in Joffrey's stead, though he hadn't truly served him at all.

"You look well," said Sansa, observing the courtesies that were so oft forgotten to her these days. She _had_ changed, Robb observed. If it had been before the War she would have been all gossip and dresses and jewels, and now there was only insincere gentilities in their place.

"You have grown so much," Nolana cried.

Sansa smiled wanly and moved on.

Nolana was quite nearly bowled over by Arya, who had always appreciated the tomboy streak in the older girl. Arya had visited Whitecourt a few times with her father, and become enamored with and wholeheartedly admired the young Lady of Whitemere.

"But your hair is so short!" laughed Nolana, mussing it with an affectionate smile.

"Mother has allowed me to keep it that way!" cried Arya with satisfaction. There was more girlishness about her no matter what she did with her hair. The soft beginnings of breasts blossoming at her chest, her hips had widened and she was tall and slender despite wanting a man's strength.

"Not exactly," Robb's mother replied wearily. "I tried to force her to grow her hair back to a respectable length but she chopped it off with shears regardless. Better this way than looking like it was attacked with cutlery."

Arya grinned triumphantly and stepped aside as Nolana greeted Bran and Rickon in turn.

"My Lady," said the Nolana's handmaiden with a girlish curtsy as she approached. She was breathless and red-faced, but positively glowing. "Erik Ileyn has requested your next dance yet again."

"Erik Ileyn grows bold," Nolana laughed.

Robb's chest tightened in annoyance. Erik Ileyn had no right. He was lower born than Nolana and the stories he told to Robb's own men of the whores and maidens he'd taken could curl even her Whitemere hair.

"Erik Ileyn grows handsome," the girl servant giggled.

"Bel!" Nolana protested with a quick nudge in the girl's ribs. "It is not for you to say so."

Robb disliked this bold, ill-mannered handmaiden. And now that they were both gazing in the direction of Erik Ileyn, he curled one fist in frustration. Ileyn was already talking to another pretty, higher born girl. He turned to motion for Nolana.

"I best go and see him for that dance," said Nolana with a wry smile. "Else he'll come over here and get me himself."

Bel, the handmaiden, finally noticed Robb and smiled with pleasure. "Your Grace," she said, with a low curtsy. "I hope you are in good health."

He nodded firmly once and then turned away from her.

Robb nearly wished he had stayed in Winterfell. As he observed the dancers he was propositioned numerous times by men he had fought alongside who wished to see their daughters dance with the King of the North. They were all already aware that he was on bought time with his impending marriage to one of Walder Frey's daughters, but they still held hope that their children might marry into royalty.

And so it was that he found himself in every dance with some girl or another. Some were pretty, and some were plain, most were so shy they daren't talk to him as they danced, which suited him fine. He'd rather take on the Kingslayer or his father any day than try to wheedle a conversation out of one of these maidens.

And finally it happened that the music drew to a finish, and the dancers dispersed, the girl he was with curtsying in a genteel way before racing back to her sisters.

He looked over to see Nolana, red-faced and breathless, but utterly lovely, collapsed upon the raised dais where her father sat, in the throne-like chair that had been set just for her. Another of her handmaids stood dutifully beside her, this one infinitely more poised and refined in a pretty way than the other Bel.

Nolana was laughing at some joke she had made, and the handmaiden cracked a small smile.

"Your Grace," Lord Arien approached him. "I hope the evening was to your satisfaction."

"Very much so, ser," said Robb with a smile. "The young ladies in your court are some of the liveliest and the prettiest I have met."

"Aye," Lord Arien laughed. "There are a special few."

And then Robb was looking at her again. Lord Arien appeared to follow his gaze and then laughed again.

"Tis a special man that would take my daughter from Whitecourt, Your Grace. I have oft wondered at who it would be. She seems to like that Erik Ileyn. Sure enough, his father's one of my great confidants."

Robb felt like he'd swallowed sour milk. "Is that so? I find Ileyn to be crude, as little as I know of him."

Lord Arien raised his eyebrows. "I have not heard that from Nola. She has told me much of his desire to sit on my council one day and help the baseborn of the North."

Robb said nothing.

"Perhaps she should marry him… It would keep her not far away from here," murmured Arien. "Speaking of marriages, how goes your betrothal to the Frey girl? Did you manage to choose a bride from his brood?"

"Not yet," said Robb woefully. He envied Arya – at least she had a few more years of bought time until she flowered before she would marry as per the agreement. Robb had few excuses left on why he should not marry and Frey was growing ever more impatient with his indecision. He swallowed. A child half Frey being the heir to Winterfell! It didn't bear thinking about.

"I have kept you too long, I fear, Your Grace. You need rest. The journey from Winterfell is hard for every man, even a king."

"I think you are right, ser," Robb agreed, realizing how tired he really was.


End file.
